


Diurnal Rhythm

by skeleton_twins



Series: Cycles [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Family Secrets, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mutual Pining, Narcolepsy, Secrets, because it's been like a couple years and i haven't done research in a while, it's about jim's family sooo, mentions of death??, no beta we make grammar mistakes like men, not really slash but not really pre-slash either, somewhere in the middle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: Jim Gordon knows a secret: Oswald Cobblepot has narcolepsy, a sleeping disorder. He tries to protect this secret and keep an eye out for the gangster without Oswald's knowledge. A run-in with Maroni's men comes at the worst possible time.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: Cycles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/865311
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Diurnal Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> so it's been awhile, huh. 
> 
> listen i wouldn't expect me returning to my roots and writing a gotham fic in 2020 either, but it is a lot easier to write when one: i'm not actively involved in the fandom anymore and two: when the fic was already halfway written. 
> 
> Anyways, this is a sequel to Circadian Rhythms and definitely won't make ANY sense unless you've read the first part.

Jim Gordon knows a secret. 

Of course, this was not the first time Jim has learned a secret. In his line of business, he’s always uncovering secrets, discovering hidden truths, seeking them out to solve the mysteries of each case. A lot of times, it’s the long-buried secrets that never seem to stay concealed that always ends up being the break in a difficult case.

Jim was taught how to keep secrets long before he was a detective. Learned never to mention what happened behind closed doors at the Gordons' residence, especially after the death of his father. Secrets lined the walls of the Gordons' household. Anything that happened inside ceased to exist once Jim took a step out the door. Jim kept quiet whenever a friendly neighbor would inquire after his mother, give a tight smile that never reached his eyes, and never mentioned the fact that he’s grown used to the sounds of empty bottles smashing against the floor. Never once spoke about the way Jim would watch his mother sitting at her vanity in the mornings, after helping her get out of bed. Hands unsteady, shaking, as she applied lipstick. The stench of liquor on her breath whenever she kissed him on the cheek. Nothing remains but a shadow of the mother he once knew. She was lost to grief, drowned herself in alcohol, pouring glass after another glass until her lungs were overflowing. 

It weighed on him. He wasn't proud of keeping that secret, the secret that resulted in his mother's demise. He tried, though, to tell someone once when he was younger, the early days when his mother first started to drink, when it was evident that it had gotten out of hand. Jim never forgets the look of betrayal on his mother's face, the cold tone, and the words that followed. "What would your father say?" 

It was enough. Instead of protecting his mother’s rapidly declining health, Jim protected his family's reputation. 

Still, to this day, Jim hated keeping secrets, the way it left a bad taste in his mouth. Guilt ate at him, taking chunks out of his soul each time he had to keep his mouth shut, draining him with every omission that slipped from his lips.

But keeping Oswald Cobblepot's secret? He'll take it to the grave, let it reside deep within his bones as they lower him into the earth, trapping it with him in the coffin he's buried in. 

He's one of the three people in all of Gotham to know that Oswald Cobblepot, a man who crawled his way up the ladder leaving a countless number of bodies in his path, has narcolepsy. Oswald had revealed it in Jim's confidence. Although, the mobster didn't have much of a choice after passing out in front of Jim. Jim thanks the military for sharpening his reflexes, he was quick, catching Oswald with ease. He knew something was wrong by the way Oswald seemed to sway towards the door. At first, Jim had thought that perhaps Oswald was drunk, but he spoke clearly, never slurring his words once. It wasn't until watching Oswald's eyes roll back into his head and his knees buckling that Jim realized something was wrong with Oswald's health.

Oswald wasn't heavy at first, it wasn't until Jim was carrying the mobster up to his apartment that he noticed the burn settling within his muscles. The soreness will come later, Jim knows, but it'll be an ache that won't bother Jim all that much like it should have. 

Cobblepot's man had offered to carry the gangster, but the weight in Jim's arms seemingly felt right. As if it belonged there. 

"It's no trouble, Mr. Gordon." Gabe had assured him in that thick, deep New York accent of his. "I do this all the time."

Jim had glanced up when he heard that, finally able to tear his eyes away from the sleeping mobster in his arms. Gabe made it sound like Oswald passing out was a frequent occurrence. Then it dawned on him, why Oswald was acting so strange earlier. Why he was so tight-lipped about the pills. Jim had thought Oswald intended to keep Jim from knowing the purpose of having the pills because of their part in a devious plan Oswald had concocted.

Oswald had tricked him to throw Jim off the scent. So Jim wouldn't find out that the pills were really for Oswald. 

"What's wrong with him?"

Gabe looked sheepish, quickly going quiet when he realized that he might've said too much. Instead of answering, he beckons Jim to follow him upstairs. 

The room Gabe directs Jim to enter is small. A single bed in the center of the room, bed frame pushed up against the pale walls. Sunlight streaming through the window, scattering across the wooden floor. The style is a stark contradiction with the atmosphere downstairs. It's more subdued, lighter than the dark purple hues of the nightclub. Jim's curious to know if it's just a plain guest room or if it is the gangster's bedroom. 

It hits Jim as he stood by the bed after depositing the gangster gently onto the mattress, Oswald was sick. He even appeared sickly, unmoving other than a slow rise and fall of his chest. His dark hair suddenly seems to accentuate his pallor. 

His mind runs with possibilities. A malignant tumor pressing against his brain. Cancer running through his bloodstream, metastasizing quickly to other organs. Maybe the problem lies in his heart, pumping much too slowly. 

Jim startled when Gabe's meaty paw gripped his shoulder, shaken away from his pondering. Not realizing the henchman had left the room and returned with a glass of water. 

"C'mon." Jim doesn't move as Gabe finishes setting the glass and pills on the nightstand and makes for the door. 

Something was wrong. Oswald was sick, he needed to be in a hospital, not dying in his bed. "Shouldn't we call an ambulance?" 

"Nah, he's fine. Boss hates hospitals." 

That does nothing to reassure Jim, only seems to confirm that whatever Oswald has, it's being left untreated for other than those pills. 

"He'll be awake in a few minutes. Don't worry, detective." 

Gabe must have a strong loyalty to the gangster. Jim would have thought he'd jump ship after finding out Oswald's condition, after all, he's working for a dead man walking. 

Jim still doesn't move just yet, still watching Oswald sleep. He is unsure as to why this news unsettles him. He should find relief, knowing that another criminal will be off the streets. Some kind of perverted justice in the fact that after murdering his way to the top, escaping with his life on more than one occasion, it's Oswald's own body that's his downfall.

If Harvey knew, he'd be celebrating that the "little snitch got what he deserved". Jim, however, finds no comfort in the fact that the gangster is dying. The day Jim spared Cobblepot's life had tied them together with an invisible string, both ends knotted on one of their ribs.

Jim wonders what will happen to the thread once Oswald's gone.

Gabe steers him back downstairs, over to take a seat at the bar, but leaving Oswald alone feels wrong. He's not expecting the sorrow that settles in his chest at seeing the mobster in his bed. The atmosphere felt as if a soldier returning from war and finding their loved ones almost lost to illness. Oswald certainly wasn't a soldier, not in the typical sense. He spoke of war; understood it like a soldier that has seen his share on the battlefield. 

_"As you know, war is just politics by other means."_

Oswald Cobblepot wasn't his lover either, no matter if an anchor is pulling them both down underneath Gotham's waters, a chain wrapped around both their ankles, leaving them sinking.

A lover would remain at their bedside. 

His hand twitches around the scotch glass Gabe offers. He doesn't take a sip, not while he's still on duty. He hopes that squeezing the glass would drive away the image of him sitting at Oswald's bed, clutching his hand, never leaving his side once. 

He doesn't know where these thoughts were coming from, nor was he aware why he was still here, sitting at Cobblepot's bar. He could leave and return at a later time for answers for his case. 

But if Jim was being honest, he knew Oswald wasn't involved in the homicide. He had hoped, though, that maybe Oswald would know who was. 

Now Jim was left with more questions than answers, which will be the excuse should anyone question his lingering presence. That Jim Gordon couldn't leave until he gets answers about the case. At least that'll be the excuse he'll tell Harvey when he returns to the precinct. Maybe Harvey won't ask what took Jim so long this time. Each visit with Cobblepot seems to last just a little longer than the previous one.

So he sits and waits for Cobblepot. 

Oswald doesn't appear sick when he steps down from the stairs into the club, surprised to still find Jim there. Jim blames the lighting. The violet colors cling to Oswald, making him look more ethereal than sickly. There's a healthy pink glow in his cheeks as he looks over at Jim. Jim wonders whether Oswald's merely flustered or he's sick with a fever. 

The mobster joins him at the bar, filling the vacant seat beside Jim. He's quick in dismissing Gabe with a wave of his hand, leaving the two alone. Of course, other employees were milling around, far off in the corners of the room, sweeping the floors, but for some reason, it feels like they're the only two left in the room.

Oswald's knee brushes against Jim's trousers as he settles on the barstool, eliciting an electric spark rushing up his legs, tingling at the brief contact. Oswald's gaze is intimate. Posture open and unreserved, trusting as he reveals the truth.

It should bother Jim knowing something so personal about Oswald. It defies his every past action of trying to remain impartial, keep some distance between him and the gangster.

He's involved now. 

It's not even an exchange. Oswald lays his weaknesses in front of Jim, risking everything just because Jim had asked for the truth and Oswald didn't expect anything in return. No bargaining of Jim's secrets to even the playing field. Nothing. 

Jim stayed, even though he got what he was after, got the answers he had been seeking. He stays and listens to Oswald. The mobster seemed hesitant at first before he started speaking about his struggles, explaining the time when he was first diagnosed with narcolepsy. Jim wonders if maybe Oswald was simply unused to sharing this story, wonders if maybe Jim was the first person to hear it. 

Even though the initial panic vanishes, learning that Oswald wasn't living on borrowed time, quickly was replaced by the flood of relief that follows from the discovery, still something lingers. Blurred and unfocused, so minuscule that Jim ignores it while leaving the nightclub. 

He carries it home, where it burrows itself in the back of Jim's mind late at night when he's alone with his thoughts in bed with his laptop sitting on his lap. He doesn't even intend to, but his fingers wander off track, moving and pushing keys without second thoughts. He already has the word "narcolepsy" in the search bar, pressing the enter key.

He learns a lot. The more he discovers the more the relief from earlier chips away. An ax falling, crashing down over Jim's head, whittling apart any illusion Jim had. Jim couldn't stop thinking about how dangerous it is for a gangster with narcolepsy in this city. 

For now, Oswald's secret is safe. Jim wouldn't tell a single soul, but what if the truth comes tumbling out? Not from Jim's own lips, of course, but what if Oswald has a spell in front of any of his opponents or even in front of an ambitious low-ranked mob associate, itching to prove their worth with a juicy secret.

It festers the next few days, slipping through the cracks at any chance. Anytime Jim had a moment to himself, downtime at work, filling out paperwork, it would creep in. 

It grows until it's consuming his thoughts. It's ridiculous to be this worried over the gangster, especially since Oswald has kept his secret for this long.

But he remembers the way Oswald had collapsed right in front of him. It had been out of Oswald's control. An incident likely to be repeated and Jim wasn't sure just who'll be the one on the other side to catch him. Oswald isn't in the company that would. While amusing as the look of surprise on Fish Mooney's face would be if Oswald landed flat on her, he pales at how merciless the woman could be. 

He doesn't intend to follow the gangster. It had started as a simple stakeout on Oswald's club, watching across the street for any illicit activity. At least that's what Jim tells himself, really he's looking for an excuse to check up on the mobster, waiting for any sign that would be a perfect explanation of Jim's presence. He's praying one of the passersby would do something that would cause Jim to have to arrest them in front of the nightclub. The ruckus would draw Oswald's attention and Jim would then be quickly invited inside. A mere coincidence and nothing more.

Two hours pass and nothing even remotely illegal happens. Jim's tempted to arrest the person in the red hoodie, throwing trash onto the sidewalk. It's a misdemeanor at best, but littering is still a crime, and Jim's desperate. But the person ends up not even being a criminal at all when they duck down to pick up the wrapper on the sidewalk, shoving it back in their pocket. 

Jim sighs, leaning back in his seat. This plan was a disaster. He thought it would take minutes, given that this is Gotham. There's always some sort of crime taking place here. He wonders if it would be such a terrible idea to just storm in like he usually does. 

But Oswald would inquire about his sudden arrival and Jim couldn't possibly admit that he was worried about the gangster. He's struggling to keep Oswald at arm's length, being curt enough to see a flash of disappointment in Oswald's eyes. If he revealed that he cared...No, it was best he avoided that. It would change everything between them. 

He settles on remaining in the car. Jim doesn't expect to see Oswald, himself, appearing on the doorsteps. Cobblepot's dressed to the nines, as usual, in a dark suit and wool coat with a burgundy scarf wrapped around his pale neck, umbrella in hand, leaving the club. 

Oswald glances at his surroundings before he limps forward, looking back once more as he makes his way down the sidewalk. 

Jim twists the keys, yanking them out of the ignition before he slides out of the car, quietly shutting the door. He waits until Oswald disappears around the corner before he follows.

He keeps his distance, not wanting to alert the gangster, slowing his pace as he joins the busy sidewalk, slipping between two businessmen talking on their phones. 

Jim doesn't fear he'll lose track of Oswald to the sea of people crowded on the sidewalk. Even in a crowd, Jim could spot Oswald easily by his unusual appearance. His dark hair was distinctive like a messy attempt to comb raven feathers, instead, the back of his hair sticks upward, tousled, ruffled feathers unable to pin down. Jim wonders if Oswald styles his hair on purpose. To make himself appear more birdlike. 

He shadows the mobster for a couple of blocks, following the sounds of his umbrella tapping against the concrete. Jim would have thought Oswald is paranoid enough to sense when he's being tailed, always looking over his shoulder just in case, but not once does Oswald look back, completely unaware that he's being followed.

The gangster appears to know where he's going, not even bothering to look around at the street signs. Oswald's limping gait never once stumbles, confident in his direction as if he knew the route by heart.

Jim's pace falters, coming to a complete halt when a woman with a stroller and an army of children trailing after her like ducklings come rushing out of a store, spilling onto the sidewalk right in front of him. 

It's a barricade of kids, piling around their mother as she attends to the baby in the stroller. One that Jim couldn't push through not without resulting in screaming weepy children.

By the time he manages to break through, rushed apologies falling from his lips as he sidesteps the family, Oswald vanishes from sight. Jim catches a glimpse of Oswald's coat before he disappears around the corner. 

The corner turns out to be a dead end. A short alleyway trapped between two buildings and Oswald's nowhere in sight. 

Jim stops, eyeing a dumpster at the end of the alley, thinking Oswald might have hidden inside it, but immediately discards the ridiculous motion. There's no way the gangster would hide inside a dumpster. But then where could he be? Oswald wasn't Houdini, he couldn't just disappear into thin air. 

Jim shakes his head, decides to call it a day. Oswald must have circled back while Jim was pushing his way through the crowd. 

Just as he turns around to leave, he notices movement in his peripheral vision, the back door of the building to his right opening. A hand shoots out, grabbing his collar and tugging Jim inside.

Before he knows it, he's being dragged inside the warehouse, pushed back, and pinned against the wall with an umbrella to his throat. 

"Jim?" 

Oswald sounds surprised like Jim is the last person he expected to see. He staggers back a few steps, umbrella swinging back down to his side. 

"I thought you were..." Oswald shakes his head, "Care to enlighten me just why you're following me, James?"

Of course, Oswald noticed. Jim feels foolish thinking he was being sneaky. Instead, Oswald probably had him pegged the moment he got out of his car. 

Even though Oswald had released him, Jim is still slumped against the wall, observing the mobster closely. He looks tired. No, he appears downright _exhausted_. 

"Are you alright?" The question slips out of his mouth. Jim wants to kick himself.

But Oswald doesn't respond right away. Instead, blinking several times like he's fighting a losing battle, striving to stay awake. 

Jim steps forward, reaching out, his fingertips grazing Oswald's arm. "Oswald?"

"What?" Oswald startles, pale green eyes snapping upward, meeting Jim's face. Up close Jim can see the shadows lurking under the gangster's eyes. 

"I asked if you're alright..." The rope loops, the knot of worry tightens as Jim considers the gangster. 

Oswald stares right back. Jim could see the cogs turning in his brain, trying to explain Jim's presence. He seems to come to his own conclusion when a look of irritation passes over his face

Oswald seems a touch dazed when he murmurs out "I'm fine." under his breath as he slips past Jim into the alley. 

Jim follows closely behind, arms stretching out to grab the gangster when his feet stumble, his gait swaying, almost toppling over but Jim catches him just in the nick of time. 

"Whoa!" 

The gangster doesn't seem to discern what had happened, merely leans heavily against Jim. His eyes start to droop shut, head falling forward as if he's on the brink of sleep. 

Jim lowers his mouth to Oswald's ear, tries to get his attention, but the mobster pushes him away. "I'm fine, I’m _fine_." He reiterates, but it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself of this point.

Jim's grip remains, despite Oswald's attempt to push him away. His fingers slip from their tight hold on Oswald's biceps, hooking one arm around the gangster's waist, tugging him closer to his chest.

His lips brush the shell of Oswald's ear as he leans down to whisper into it once more. "Oswald, stop."

Jim's expecting an argument, a quick jab of an elbow connecting to his ribs, but Oswald only slumps back against him, in defeat, much too exhausted to put up much of a fight. 

"Let me help you." He keeps his voice barely above a whisper. "Please."

Jim winces at how he sounds. Desperate. Revealing more concern for the gangster than he probably should. 

His thoughts are interrupted by voices booming down the alley. Their voices almost blend together, it’s the same boisterous laughter, same heavy accents of every goon Maroni hires. They sound distressingly nearby as if they’re right around the corner.

If they spot them, if they spot _Oswald_ in this condition, it’s done. Oswald’s secret is out. They’re fucked.

Luckily, Oswald blinks awake at the sound of Jim’s voice. He shakes the gangster as gentle as he can, “Oswald, Maroni’s men are close–we gotta get you out of here. They can’t see you like this.” 

Even half-awake, the gangster schemes. Jim watches as his bright green eyes narrow for just a split second as Oswald decides on something. 

Jim opens his mouth to ask but is cut off. “Do you trust me?”

He hesitates just long enough for Oswald to huff, long enough for the voices to draw nearer. “We’re running out of time, James, do you _trust_ me?” 

Jim doesn’t hesitate this time. His throat feels raw as he answers. 

“Yes.” 

He doesn’t expect the faint blush against Oswald’s pale skin. Oswald pauses, the pink blush painting across his nose and cheeks, in between his scattered freckles. Jim steals a glance at the gangster’s mouth, noticing the flash of pink darting between white teeth. 

Oswald is quick, tugging the scarf off his neck and draping it over Jim’s shoulders before Jim can even react. 

“Oswald, what are you–” 

Oswald ignores him as he runs his fingers through his own hair, pushing dark strands back from his forehead and aside. The once easily recognizable trait morphs into something not so distinctive, not so Oswald Cobblepot. 

Jim watches, confused as Oswald ditches his coat and umbrella. He grimaces as he tosses them both near the dumpster, morning the loss of the expensive material’s shine, now dirtied from the streets of Gotham. 

Oswald turns away from the discarded items, his hard gaze set back on Jim, face determined as he loops the ends of the scarf, still hanging around Jim’s neck, around his fingers and tugs sharply. Jim stumbles forward, caught off guard by the movement, unable to figure out Oswald’s plan.

It becomes abundantly clear when he realizes their positions, Jim pinning Oswald back against the brick wall. It’s one they’re familiar with, one they’ve been in plenty of times before, but usually, it’s Jim pushing Oswald–not the other way around. 

Oswald has never thrown his arms around Jim’s shoulders like _this_ either. 

Maroni’s men are close now, there’s no time to think when Oswald orders Jim to lift him. No time to second guess Oswald’s plans. He slips his hands under the gangster’s thighs and quickly lifts him as Oswald’s legs brackets around his hips.

Oswald leans in closer till they’re a kiss away, merely inches away from their lips touching. The tips of their noses bump together and Oswald’s mouth twitches. 

“This is your plan?!” Jim whispers, disbelief coloring his voice. He’s uncertain about this, whether it will work, whether it's a good idea for Jim to be _this_ close. 

He knows it’s not. 

It’s not going to be easy to forget the way Oswald’s gazing at him, the way his mouth gapes slightly showing the barest of teeth, unable to forget the pressure against his hands, the weight of Oswald’s thighs as he holds them. 

“It will work,” Oswald tells him and Jim has to jerk his eyes away from the mobster’s mouth, already distracted. “They’re not going to think twice about seeing two young lovers in some dirty alley. ”

The loud voices are close, the sounds of footsteps undeniably growing louder as they stumble into the alley. Jim risks a look, nothing more than a glance out of his peripheral vision, but it’s enough. There’s five lackeys total, far, _far_ , too many. And maybe, just maybe, between Jim and Oswald they could fight them off if it came to it, but Jim’s not looking for a fight today. 

Oswald leans forward, the tip of his nose sliding against Jim’s, catching his attention. Jim’s heart pounds and he fears for a moment that his rib cage will crack from the force of it. He's convinced that Oswald is going to kiss him, but he tilts away at the very last second. His bottom lip barely brushes against the corner of Jim’s mouth.

“You don’t have to kiss me, Detective.” Oswald murmurs against his cheek. His breath warms his face as he shakily exhales. 

Jim swallows hard, muscles working, and Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He feels like an exposed wire, raw electricity running through him, ready to spark, to explode if someone makes contact. 

He wants to kiss Oswald. 

This isn’t a new revelation. Jim knows his urges, his desires, but he tucked them away, very neatly, along with the rest of the stacks of case files he keeps buried–cold and forgotten. 

He wanted to kiss him back at the club while Oswald was resting. Jim’s fingers twitching, wanting to reach out for Oswald’s hand, to bring his knuckles to his mouth for a small kiss.

“Oswald…” Jim starts. 

Oswald tilts his head back, gazing back at Jim curiously. Bright eyes narrowed. His eyes skip back and forth as he stares at Jim, searching for something. Jim feels like he’s being examined as if he’s under the microscope and Oswald’s seconds away from dissecting him and digging for the buried truth he hides. 

He doesn’t get to speak–Jim wasn’t quite sure what he was even going to say–and neither does Oswald.

Loud whistles and catcalls echoes startle them–reminding them of where they are and that they are not alone. Oswald’s quick to bury his face against Jim’s shoulder, effectively shielding it from Maroni’s men. 

“Don’t panic,” Oswald mumbles low. “Just pretend– act like we’re in love.” 

Jim does as he’s ordered even if his palms start to sweat and his heart races wildly in his chest. His face burns as he lowers his head. His breath hitching and uneven. Oswald’s neck is exposed–easy access for Jim’s mouth. His kisses are delicate, barely even makes contact but Oswald loudly moans despite this. He’s uncertain if it’s just an act or if Oswald’s _that_ sensitive. 

“Get a room!” One of the men shouts, earning the laughter of the other goons. Jim feels Oswald tense in his arms and Jim follows suit. He’s not quite sure Oswald’s plan is going to work, not if they get any closer, not if the men does something stupid. 

Thankfully, they stop walking a little less than halfway into the alley. Far away enough not to pay close attention or recognize either of them. 

“C’mon, boys, let’s leave the lovebirds at it.” 

Jim keeps up the act even as the men's voices grow distant, footsteps becoming quieter as they take their exit. He drags his nose along the side of Oswald’s throat, inhaling deep, breathing in the scent of the gangster. It’s faint, the cologne’s barely there, but Jim draws it in all the same. 

The tip of his nose bumps against Oswald’s ear. “I think they’re gone.” 

Jim feels Oswald slacken against him and he thinks it’s with relief, and he waits for the snappy words to come, waits for him to push Jim away, but the weight in his hands grows heavier much to his concern.

He catches Oswald easily, just as before back in Oswald’s office. It feels familiar–a forming habit–the weight of Oswald settling in his palms and the slight burn along his stretching tendons and muscles. 

“Oswald?” Jim asks carefully, he whispers low, still afraid of catching unwanted attention even though the threat is gone. The mobster doesn’t stir, other than his neck lolling forward, slumping entirely against Jim as he falls quickly asleep, forehead pressing against Jim’s shoulder.

Jim stands there in an empty alleyway, gangster heavy in his arms. There’s a permanent heat catching fire under his skin, melting his bones, and he’s relieved that Oswald sleeps. 

There’s a conversation waiting for them, Jim knows, one he so desperately doesn’t wish to broach. Cowardice is uncommon for the detective, not a word in his dictionary. Jim Gordon springs to action–always taking the less-traveled path even if there are sticks and thorns in his way. But he retreats in safety, far away from his desires that were so close to revealing themselves. Too risky. Much too risky. 

He fears that his heartbeat is too noisy, growing ever so louder as he reflects on mere minutes ago, that it might wake the sleeping gangster. Jim remembers the breathy exhale from Oswald, as they stood close, the heat warming the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a kiss, but it might as well have been with the way it leaves Jim feeling. It’s not captured butterflies in his intestinal lining, fluttering to escape. The earth hadn’t shifted right under his feet. No sparks or fireworks erupting behind closed eyes.

It winded him. A permanent breathlessness, a waiting exhale, plagues his lungs since their ongoing chase started when he stepped out of Fish Mooney’s club to investigate a noise in the alleyway. Since then, the lines have blurred, and he wasn’t quite certain who’s chasing who; if he has been chasing the gangster or if Oswald has been the one in pursuit the whole time. 

But there they are again–back in some dirty alleyway. This time both caught off-guard when Oswald got too close, both surprised as Oswald’s fingers almost snag the coattails of Jim’s jacket, close but slipping out of his fingertips.

It’s better this way, Jim thinks–that Oswald’s deep in slumber–otherwise, how could he explain the disappointment he felt when Oswald didn’t kiss him? There’s no chance that Oswald, astute as he is, didn’t notice it. Jim has no explanations to write his reaction off. His tongue feels light, weightless from the absence of words that flee, disappearing from his vocal cords. 

It would be easier to leave Oswald here, alone to his defenses, and walk away. Maybe it would be better–distancing himself from Oswald after whatever space Jim had always put between them had been destroyed earlier– erases any chances of facing future conversations.

But leaving Oswald isn’t an option. They’re bound together by _something_ , maybe it’s Gotham’s waters, maybe it’s the blood that runs along the cracks in the streets. Criminality and law; forever intertwined. 

Jim doesn’t carry the gangster to his nightclub–it’s best to avoid prying eyes and questions from Oswald’s men that might talk. His car is closer anyways.

Maybe it’s another clue Jim’s ignoring; choosing to hide Penguin away in his car, draping him across the backseat and letting him sleep. The facts lay bare at his feet, clear evidence that he cares, that he wants to protect Oswald. 

He can rationalize it away that he was protecting a source, a confidential informant. The almost kiss shared between them, however, is harder to explain, so Jim doesn’t try to. Instead, he sits at the front wheel, keys in the ignition and fingers loosely grasping the steering wheel as if he’s about to drive away despite the fact the engine is shut off. He waits, peering into the rearview mirror occasionally, looking for any stirring of the resting gangster, waiting for Oswald to wake. 

Jim doesn’t know what to expect when Oswald blinks his eyes awake. What he might say or if he’ll say anything at all. He can’t predict Oswald anymore and suspects that maybe Oswald can’t quite guess Jim’s next moves either.

Their typical flow has been disrupted now, no longer patterns set on diverging tracks. Jim rises with the sun and falls with the moon and he convinced himself that Oswald mirrors the opposite; that he shies away from the sunlight and thrives in the shadows. He has unburied Oswald's secrets and protect them, realizing in the process that things are no longer as black and white as Jim once thought. They are not two sides of the same coin, and maybe, they never have been. 

The leather cushion in the backseat groans; springs underneath quietly squeaking. As soon as he hears the sound, Jim lifts his eyes, catching Oswald’s reflection shifting in the rearview mirror, his bleary gaze locking on his, staring right back.

Jim sees clearly now–their rhythms are synchronizing.

**Author's Note:**

> i really don't know if i'll be working on any other gotham wips I've abandoned??? i know a lot of people were invested in my one gobblepot fic and probably would've liked to see that updated instead of this, but this might be my official last gotham fic unless i get inspired to finish In the rose garden, I long to see your face but who knows what will happen. 2020 has been a weird-ass year, huh?


End file.
